


the stars, as if they mattered

by seraf



Series: fundamentally people [3]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Angst, Character Study, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Parallels, Storytelling, Ultimate Talent Development Plan (Dangan Ronpa)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: ' hey kiyo, tell us a story, ' kokichi says, and it's a demand more than a request.kiyo tries to come up with a new one at their behest, but like all storytellers, finds the tale he spins rooted in the scars of the past.he hopes it's a good story nonetheless.





	the stars, as if they mattered

‘ hey, kiyo, tell us a story, ‘ kokichi says, and it’s a demand more than it’s a request, but kiyo is unsure whether the nature of the demand is such that it’s only a demand because kokichi knows kiyo would want to tell stories, or if it would be a demand regardless, if kokichi is just that sort of person. but it doesn’t matter. ( doesn’t it? ) a story has been asked of him, and he is a bastion of thousands, he can easily find one to spare.

 

he nods thoughtfully, opens his mouth, legends about sparrows and severed hands and fully-grown boys born in the pits of fruit resting on the tip of his tongue, when kokichi holds a hand up. ‘ but not an old one! i want to hear a _new_ story! you’ve read tons and tons of them, right? so i wanna hear you come up with one! ‘

 

kiyo sighs, leans back against the high-arching wall of the room, empty but for the handful of them spending the night there. ‘ kokichi, if you wanted a story _creator,_ you should have asked toko. or . . . there are many others who would be more suited to this than me. ‘

 

‘ don’t care, ‘ kokichi sings. ‘ i wanna hear a story! ‘

 

‘ maybe leave kiyo alone, ‘ shuichi tries, admittedly half-heartedly – once kokichi has his heart set on something, it’s hard to dissuade him. he may be mercurial, but he is dogged in that which he decides to pursue.

 

‘ no, i have to be honest – i’m kinda curious too, ‘ rantaro says, mildly. always mildly. as though the softness of his voice, his unassuming edges, will take away the bite from any of his questions or accusations. ‘ you’ve always got such a way with words, kiyo. ‘

 

‘ all in favor of kiyo coming up with a story, raise your hands? ‘ kaede asks, pressing one fist into her palm, and the hands of the small assembled group creep up into the air like snowdrops in march, peeping through the frost. even shuichi’s hand raises, though he mouths _sorry_ at kiyo for it. kaede beams at him. ‘ you heard it, kiyo! take it away! ‘

 

kiyo shakes his head with an exasperation he’s surprised to discover is fond. ‘ you have no idea whether it will be good or not. ‘

 

‘ no, ‘ rantaro says, with a bright little smile, brushing his shoulder against kiyo’s, ‘ but you’re our friend, and we want to hear from you. it won’t matter to us if it’s good or not. ‘

‘ it will to me! ‘ kokichi calls out, waving one hand in the air.

 

‘ a good thing, then, that i don’t care what you think, ‘ kiyo says acridly, earning him a snicker from the group – his friends? are they friends? is this what friendship is like? maybe it’s for the best that only kokichi will know that he’s lying; that he cares almost desperately what they think. ‘ but . . . fine, if that is what you want of me. ‘

 

he breathes out, searches for words in himself as though he can grind down the marrow of his bones into letters, bloodlet his essence into poetry, strip his nerves for a narrative. it’s not in his body that he finds the answer, at first, but on a chance glance around the room, catching a view of the night sky out of one of the windows.

 

that would do.

 

‘ once, ‘ he begins, unsure of where the story will take him, ‘ there was the moon and the sun, and that was all there ever was. ‘ like most mythologies, it doesn’t need to be based in reality, and like all stories, it is based on truth. there are bodies at play here, and histories past, but not on so cosmic a scale.

 

‘ the sun was born first, and she was . . . bright and brilliant, and paled whatever could come after her. perhaps there were other stars in the sky, then, perhaps there were not. it isn’t important for the story; all that matters to us is the sun, for she outshone them all. ‘

 

before his birth, he had heard, she had been so talented. so full of life.

 

‘ it was many years later that the moon was born, ‘ he continues, and focuses on the open window, refuses to look at the faces of the people around him, because he’ll lose the thread of the story if he does, he’ll lose the moon and sun and fable setting, and it will just become _i_ and become _her_ and become _our mother, the sickness, her hospital room, the two-hour transit, my first hospital mask._ ‘ and the moon, by itself, gave off no light. ‘

 

without her, there was no way to define _him._ he was nothing, by himself.

 

‘ but the sun loved him, and the sun wanted to see him grow, as well, so she shared in her radiance. grew older and dimmed, just a little, so that he could borrow some of her light. and the two of them lived in orbit for some time, because they were all that ever was. the sun and the moon and their love for each other. ‘

 

he loved her. didn’t he? of course he did.

 

he didn’t know anything else.

 

‘ the moon was young, and continued to grow. and got brighter, and brighter, and the sun began to notice herself dimming. as the moon grew brighter, she realized, he was taking more and more light from her, without even realizing it, because he was young and foolish, and didn’t know any better. ‘

 

he got to eat. got to go to school, to make friends, to stay up late and make bad choices and run until his lungs felt ready to fold in in his chest, and she had to stay in her hospital bed, growing ever sicker. diminishing.

 

‘ the moon realized, eventually. and they made a pact, together, that they would share in all things. to make sure everything was fair. their light was close enough to equal now, and it remained that way for some time. there _were_ other stars in the sky, and the moon had known some of them, but he cut all contact with them. they were . . . superfluous, anyway. because the sun . . . she outshone them all. they had never given him anything, never helped her, never stayed to give her the time of day, because she was diminishing, and they were going to be bright forever. or so they thought. ‘

 

he was nine years old when she said that she loved him, in a way that was more than brother and sister, more than they were supposed to. nine years old when _sharing a bed_ began to take on a very different connotation.

 

it’s a good thing that he was a very smart child. he learned quickly. had it been anyone else, perhaps the situation might have been considered an undesirable one, an abuse of power, manipulation of someone who didn’t know any better. but they loved each other, and he had said yes – so of course, he must have been smart enough to know that saying no was an option, right?

 

‘ the moon orbited the sun and was enveloped in her warmth, and he loved her more than words could ever say. more than light could ever give. more than life would ever allow. and one day . . . it ended. ‘

 

he hadn’t even been with her when she died, and for that, he can only blame himself.

 

logically, he knows it’s irrational, but he can’t help but think that if he’d been there, maybe she wouldn’t have died.

 

‘ the sun lost the last of her light, and thus exsanguinated, vanished from the universe, and the moon was left, careening alone through space. there were other stars, but they were not important, and he barely noticed they were there. he couldn’t see them, through the afterimage her death had left in her eyes. how could he? she had outshone them all, and she still did, even in death. ‘

 

hypothetically, there had been people, after she had died. teachers, counselors, their mother. he doesn’t remember any of their faces. their words meant nothing, and still mean nothing now.

 

‘ and the moon . . . at first, he tried to follow her. tried to let his stolen light consume him, first, let it burn him to the core. he crashed through other galaxies, through black holes and meteor showers, in the hopes that it would break him apart, and he could go where she had gone. but she was beautiful and delicate light, and at the heart of him, he was stone, and he was harder to break. ever more the shame, for both of them, and for the universe around them. ‘

 

he kept the scars hidden. none of his . . . friends? needed to know that he couldn’t even kill himself right.

 

‘ so, he remained alone, isolated from the universe around him and despondent. one day . . . even the sun and the moon do not remember how he learned it, but he learned of a way he might talk with her again. ‘

 

he barely remembers the spoken words. they were drowned out by the rope around his throat, his limbs, lashing his back until it resembled so much raw meat.

 

‘ and so the moon split himself in two, and into one half of himself, gave back all of the sun’s light he had borrowed since the day of his creation, and it was like she had reappeared again. he would have been content to give her all of him, but she reached out, cradled him. insisted he stay, and reshaped him so that he could reflect her light without stealing it from her. ‘

 

he would have been fine with just giving up his body to her completely. he would have.

 

he was nothing without her, after all.

 

she was always so generous.

 

‘ and thus, the moon and the sun that we know today were created. the moon does not need to steal, any longer, and only gives off the borrowed light that he needs to, and the sun, thanks to the body she took from the moon, is still able to live on. ‘

 

it’s . . . an alright story. isn’t it? isn’t this a good way for things to end? it’s all he could have hoped for, after all. he doesn’t know what would have happened to him had she truly, completely, disappeared. this has to be a good ending.

 

he searches their faces, those of his friends – the stars in the sky, albeit less numerous – with something like desperation.

 

please. say it’s a good story.

 

say this meant something.

 

he can’t tell on his own. he never could.

 

‘ did they live happily ever after? ‘ asks himiko with a yawn, rubbing traces of sleep away from where they’re persistently trying to creep into the corners of her eyes.

 

kiyo thinks about it. thinks about harsh red smiles and the coldness that can come with words. feels recently-opened cuts underneath the bandages wrapping his hands ( that he had coming, that they both agreed he had had coming, wasn’t he lucky to have her around to know when to punish himself, to know when he had done wrong? ) looks up to the moon again.

 

did they?

 

it’s a good question.

 

did they?

 

he knows what the answer should be. he knows what she would say the answer was.

 

in the end, that’s all that really matters, isn’t it? she’s always right, after all.

 

‘ yes, ‘ he says, eventually, finding his voice, and swallowing down the hollowness that he can feel ringing in the words. ‘ yes, they did. ‘

 

and they lived happily ever after.

 

the end.

 

( it has to be. it must be. she says it is, and she knows better than him. )


End file.
